“It does not,” Charlotte said. In fact it was a relief to know he had considered this.
Mr. Scott took a breath. “I would prefer not to spend months writing back and forth between countries, trying to arrange time to see one another and attempting to learn one another’s characters from a distance. I would like, instead, to get to know one another right now, in this time and this place. As I said, if we decide we are not well-suited, we part ways. But if what I feel—and what I hope you feel—has the potential for something . . . wonderful, then I would like to give it an opportunity to blossom.”
“It is a very practical approach, as you said,” Charlotte said. “Much more fitting for my nature than yours.”
“A man can learn from his mistakes and change his nature to a degree, I believe.”
She wasn’t sure how to respond, or if she believed that entirely, so she simply nodded.
He reached into the inside pocket of his coat and withdrew a letter. “To support this approach, I have written out my financial situation with expected improvements that I believe will become available in future years. I will warn you up front that I canna provide a life such as Lord Downshire has given you, but I am a hard worker and . . . well, you can read the letter. If my situation is not acceptable, you need only tell me and I shall immediately join my friends in Windermere with no regrets. I want all things known and understood between us so that we might move forward with equanimity.”
Charlotte leaned forward and took the letter, which was sealed and addressed rather officially. She tucked the envelope into the waistband of her skirt, wanting to read it when she was alone.
He nodded toward the center of town. “I am staying at the Heather Inn on High Street and will wait for your reply there. If this idea is too wild for consideration, I would appreciate knowing your opinion sooner rather than later. Good day to you, Miss Carpenter. Thank you for your time.” He turned his horse and began to move forward.
“Wait,” Charlotte said, urging Jolie to catch up with him. “Will you not ride with me this morning? You have come all this way.”
He smiled again, and she noted how much it softened his already soft features. There was something about him that was so . . . safe, an air of innocence that, coupled with his boyish looks and bright eyes, made it easier to trust him than it was for Charlotte to trust anyone. “Believe it or not, I am trying not to be too pressing, which you must know goes against all my romantic sensibilities.”
Charlotte laughed. “You are a singular man, Mr. Scott, but I would very much like to ride with you. I shall still read your letter and will send my decision to your inn once I’ve given it the consideration such a bold proposition deserves, but regardless, we can ride together as friends dis morning, no?”
His face and eyes lit up even more as he gave her a single nod.
“I might not be romantic in nature, Mr. Scott, but I understand that this . . . proposal is a compliment to me and I dank you.”
“I am glad that you see it in the spirit it is offered.” Their horses started up a rise in the road, and they rode in silence for a few seconds, then Mr. Scott cleared his throat. “I have something else I’ve been wanting to tell you but have resisted.”
She lifted her eyebrows expectantly.
“Je parle-français couramment.”
Walter returned to the Heather Inn in time for luncheon, which he took with a large mug of ale to ease his nerves. That the morning ride with Miss Carpenter had been everything he could have hoped for made waiting for her response that much harder. She had tucked his letter away without grand gesture, but he had returned her to the house where she was staying and by now she would be reading the letter. Right at this moment, perhaps. His stomach churned, and he ate with greater fervor, as though that would keep him from picturing her at a desk, breaking the seal, unfolding the paper.
Would she judge the quality of his paper? Mina’s had always been so much finer than his, but Walter hadn’t thought to care until now.
He finished his meal and retired to his room, where he resumed reading Le Morte D’Arthur and tried, without much success, to lose himself within the pages.
What if she refused him? He had presented his idea as though fifteen days was not enough investment to break his heart, yet he felt so vulnerable already. Och, a poet’s heart was a curse indeed!
Walter wished he had confidants, but John and Adam had made themselves quite clear. Am I being a fool? Perhaps, yet his heart and mind were reconciled in this.
That Miss Carpenter was so unlike Mina concerned his friends, and yet it was that very aspect that drew Walter to her. She spoke her mind, which eased his fear of her leading him on. She was practical, which increased his confidence because she would not be blinded by romance. Rather, should they pursue this course, Walter’s eyes would be as open as hers, his mind would be sharp, and even if he fell into raptures, he felt sure she would pull him from it.
Miss Carpenter was also an eager student, attentive and comfortable asking questions. He was intrigued by her independent nature and capability of making her own choice, something Walter was more and more convinced Mina had lacked. Miss Carpenter was also bold and adventurous, but not at the expense of her manners. Or at least, not usually.
“I can trust her,” he said out loud, and the truth ran through him like the streams that fed the lochs. I can trust her. He had believed that Mina felt one way when she did not. Miss Carpenter, however, was not one to hide her thoughts. If she would have him, she would say it and mean it.
If she would have him.
Walter put away the book and instead turned to his pen, still set upon the desk where he had written his letter to Miss Carpenter. His mind was too full to keep his thoughts inside and so he put his pen to paper and let himself create the pictures being painted in his mind.
Charlotte read Mr. Scott’s letter twice to be sure she hadn’t missed anything, impressed at how much information he had included—his salary, his hopes for a position as Sheriff in coming years, his writing aspirations, and the fact that he expected no assistance from his family. He made surprisingly little as a barrister—only eighty-four pounds last year—but considered it an adequate living to support a wife and family. Perhaps it was not as expensive to live in Scotland as it was in England.
Or, as she suspected, perhaps Mr. Scott was not used to new clothes at each change of the season, fine dishes, or his own carriage. Charlotte, however, was used to all of those things and could not adequately imagine what it would be like to be without them.
At the same time, she had been preparing to live more simply for several months. Her ongoing income of five hundred pounds a year—though small in comparison to the luxuries she had enjoyed through Lord Downshire’s care—could make up the difference in Mr. Scott’s salary. But for all he knew, she was a pauper, and knowing that he had sent this letter without expecting she would have anything to bring to the union intrigued her further. His interest was in Charlotte, not her money.
The thought made her spine tingle with anticipation, and she wanted to pen a letter immediately to tell him that she was eagerly looking forward to the next fifteen days.
If only it were that easy.
Charlotte let the paper fall into her lap and looked out the window at the moors she and Mr. Scott had ridden that morning. She had never enjoyed a man’s company as much as she enjoyed his, and she felt so very comfortable with herself when she was with him. Those things should be enough. She desperately wanted them to be enough. And yet . . . he had to live in Edinburgh for his work in the Court of Sessions.
What was Edinburgh like? It was further north, which meant it would be colder than anything she’d experienced before. Edinburgh was in a whole different country. If she married Mr. Scott, all that was familiar to her would be gone. She had been a stranger in a strange land in England her whole life already. Could she do it again?
Mr. Scott, his brother, and Mr. Ferguson had shown her how very proud Scotsmen were of their heritage. Would such pride allow acceptance of a foreign bride? And not just foreign, but French and orphaned too. What would Mr. Scott make of her mother’s scandal?
The questions were overwhelming, and her stomach tightened. If she could not accept the limitations of Mr. Scott’s place in the world she should tell him now. But then her mind went back to what it felt like to ride with him, to play cards with him, to talk to him. He wanted her. Charlotte. Whom no one had ever truly wanted. Despite her anxiety and concerns, she knew that if she did not accept this opportunity to explore a connection between them she would wonder over it for the rest of her life.
Charlotte changed out of her riding habit and into a day dress, picked up the letter, took a breath, and left her room. Charlotte needed to talk to someone about this, and despite the difficulty between them, Jane was all she had.
Jane was in the drawing room with her aunt. Charlotte slipped into a chair and picked up her sewing cushion, hoping for the right moment. She was aware that Mr. Scott was awaiting her reply, and she did not want to make him wait for long, but as the minutes ticked by and Mrs. Nicholson did not seem inclined to leave the room, Charlotte wondered if this might not be a better opportunity. Jane might be more polite with her aunt present. Charlotte reminded herself that she did not need either woman’s approval and felt calmed by that realization.
Finally, when she had gathered her courage, Charlotte placed her cushion in her lap and waited for the conversation between the two women to lull. When it did, she cleared her throat. Jane and Mrs. Nicholson looked at her as though just now realizing she was in the room.
“I wonder if I might speak with the two of you,” Charlotte said, trying to sound strong and yet humble. “Something has happened and I need to make a decision.”
Jane fairly dropped her sewing into her lap, but she did not say anything.
Mrs. Nicholson continued her stitches, the expression on her face merely curious. “Certainly,” she said. “You may speak freely.”
Charlotte smiled at Mrs. Nicholson, but turned her attention to Jane. “Mr. Scott has come to Carlisle.”
Jane’s eyes went wide. “I thought you told him not to follow.”
“I did,” Charlotte said. “And yet this morning he met me on the road and I was happy to see him. We rode out together.”
Jane’s jaw clenched, clearly holding back a bitter retort.
“Who is Mr. Scott?” Mrs. Nicholson asked.
“A Scotsman we met in Gilsland,” Jane said, her voice still tight. “He was on holiday with his brother and their friend. He was very attentive to Charlotte, but as we were leaving she told him not to follow her. I am disappointed that he would ignore such advisement.”
“I am not sorry,” Charlotte said, turning to Mrs. Nicholson so as to further explain. “He is a barrister from Edinburgh and a respectable man.” She withdrew the letter from her pocket. Both women looked at it before looking at Charlotte. “He has requested that he and I spend time together before he returns to his work, to see if we might make a good match.”
“Goodness!” Mrs. Nicholson said, finally setting her sewing into her lap. “He asked you this on your ride?”
Charlotte nodded, wondering how she could explain this correctly. She glanced at Jane, who said nothing, before she continued. “It is a very practical proposition, an investissement of time over the course of the next fifteen days, at which time we will each decide separately if we want to pursue a further connection. If either of us does not want to continue, then we will end our time together and be wiser for the consideration.”
“And if both of you do want to continue?” Mrs. Nicholson asked.
Charlotte paused and felt the butterflies move from her stomach to her chest as she answered the question first in her mind and then out loud. “I will marry him.”
For an instant it seemed as though the very air had been sucked from the room, leaving them in silence. Charlotte swallowed.
Jane suddenly stood, dropped her hoop to the chair, and hurried from the room. Shocked, Charlotte stood as well.
“Do not go after her, Charlotte,” Mrs. Nicholson said, waving her to sit.
Charlotte did so, but tension filled every part of her. She glanced toward the door. “I do not understand,” she said quietly.
Mrs. Nicholson arched one gray eyebrow. “Don’t you?”
Charlotte truly did not understand Jane’s reaction and shook her head.
“Jane is five-and-thirty years old. No man is coming for her.”
“I did not know she wished for marriage.” Had Jane’s pride in her education and accomplishments been a cover for heartache?
Mrs. Nicholson smiled. “Because you knew her after her chances were past. She has accepted things as they are, but it does not mean she does not grieve. Additionally, she has enjoyed her time with you and has lived a grander life than she’d known before. Although she knows that life is coming to an end—and I suppose she has not been gracious about that—I suspect this prospect is a more painful end than your independence.”
The months of tension, the awkward discussions and arguments—all could be explained by Mrs. Nicholson’s assessment. “I do not want to hurt her, but it seems any course I take does so.”
“It is not your fault,” she said, smiling sympathetically. “She will have to make peace with this in her own way. I will try to help her, but for you I think it’s enough to know why this is hard for her. She has some deep wounds that have not healed, though I think she thinks they have.”
Charlotte looked at the letter in her lap and let out a breath. “I had wanted her counsel,” she said.
“Regarding this man’s proposal?”
Charlotte nodded. She nearly pointed out that she had no one to go to for advice, but it would sound as though she were begging for sympathy.
“You are of an age to make your own choice. Surely you wouldn’t base your decision on Jane’s opinion alone?”
“No,” Charlotte said, shaking her head. “But I had hoped to talk over the particulars. There was a time when we were very good friends.”
“Perhaps my counsel would be more objective than hers just now,” Mrs. Nicholson said. “If you’ll have it.”
Charlotte looked up at her and felt a rush of relief. “I would be very grateful.”
Mrs. Nicholson nodded. “Good, then here it is: Of course you shall accept Mr. Scott’s terms and spend time in his company.”
“You think it is . . . appropriate?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Nicholson said, shaking her head. “If you already have accord with the man, I see no reason not to make this attempt.”
“If I decide to marry him, everything I know will change.”
Mrs. Nicholson’s smile softened. “That frightens you?”
Charlotte nodded, but it was not a vigorous agreement.
“But not enough to keep you from this course.”
Charlotte paused then shook her head. “I feel . . . I feel like I could marry him—be his wife and . . . have children. Perhaps dat is the more frightening part. I had all but given up having a family and now I might have the chance.”
“God can move mountains to see His work done, my child, and it serves us well not to critique Him too harshly for His methods, but to try to appreciate the views He blesses us to see. I would not spurn this chance, Charlotte. I would see it as a gift.”
“Dank you, ma’am,” Charlotte said, more grateful than she knew how to express.
“And fifteen days, you said?”
Charlotte nodded, a nervous tickle in her belly.
“Well, you shall stay here at least that long, then, and we shall have this Mr. Scott visit. Of course, you can see him however you like within proper bounds, but know that we will welcome him here.”
“I would give you two bits of advice, however.”
Charlotte nodded, eager for any advice this woman—any woman—might give her. She imagined that mothers imparted this kind of wisdom to their daughters, but Charlotte had no mother. Or aunts. She craved maternal connection, especially in this.
“First, make a selfish choice.”
Charlotte pulled her eyebrows together, but Mrs. Nicholson continued. “God willing, you will get one chance at marriage, and it is not a choice to be made lightly. Challenge this man so that you can see what he is made of. Ask every question you can think of and weigh his answers as fairly as possible. Then make the choice that is best for your sake, not his. If you accept him because he is exactly what you desire in a husband, you will naturally want to care for him in every way a woman cares for her husband because you will know that you made the decision with full consciousness of mind.”
The wisdom of such council, though unexpected, was sobering, and the choice she made would influence her future in ways she could not imagine now. To make a choice based on fear that she would not get another offer or simply to please Mr. Scott would be foolish.
“And the second bit of advice?”
“Let him kiss you.”
Charlotte felt her cheeks heat up.
Mrs. Nicholson smiled knowingly. “And the sooner the better on that score.” She raised a finger and looked at Charlotte strongly. “But don’t allow more liberty than that.” She leaned forward. “You cannot be prepared to make a truly selfish decision until he has kissed you and you have kissed him back and know how that sort of intimacy settles between you both. Should you decide to marry this man, I’ll have more to say on that score, but for now, I only want you to know that there is an energy between a man and a woman that should be powerful and compelling. A kiss can let you know if that energy is right with Mr. Scott, and since you are not a simpering debutante likely to be taken in by a rake, there is no reason not to explore your potential together.”
The Lady of the Lakes Page 22
